She was my first love, my first real relationship with sex occurring with some regularity (we were 16). It was at that horrible part of the relationship when you are being gradually unveiled to her parents, and consider it important that they like you (only in later years do you not give a sh*t).

I went round her house, and it went okay - the old man gave me a few beers etc. Naturally I was flushed with this success, secure in the charm I was exuding, the Lord of all Creation. Later in the evening they invited me round for Boxing Day - lunch, beers etc, and in my state of semi-euphoric, semi-inebriated stupidity I immediately accepted.

With much 'very nice to meet you' ing and 'see you on Boxing Day' the evening ended, we walked back to the train station and after a celebratory hand job from her it was off to blissful contented sleep. Maybe this serious relationship malarkey weren't so bad after all I thought. Some hours later, however, the awful crushing truth became know to me, and full horror of my predicament was revealed.

Boxing day: KO 11am, Tottenham Hotspur vs West Ham. The Horror!! How could I?? The game was unmissable, obviously, but how could I get out of the Boxing Day lunch without causing offence, general hatred and probable suspension of the nuptials I was enjoying? Upon the horns of this dilemma I tossed, until the following cunning plan was successfully executed enabling me to see both the match, and turn up late to the lunch without causing offence.

At the time I lived in Staines, and with no BR on Boxing Day it was a 45 minute cycle ride to the nearest tube (and also a 50 minute cycle ride to her house). I cycled off to the match - and it was fabulous - the result was either a 2-2 draw, or a 2-0 win (and they got the obligatory kicking in the shelf, the Paxton and all the way down the Seven Sisters high road).

Straight after the game I dashed home. One other thing to note is that they didn't have a phone (she was one of 5 sisters, and the old man couldn't afford it!!). I Got back to the tube station and peddled as fast as I could to her house, time of arrival 2:30ish (I was due at 12:30). Now for the clever bit: just around the corner from her house I punctured my bike, then walked slowly round the corner pushing my bike.

'Sorry I was so late, my bike got punctured half way and I had to walk the rest'.

Not only did I escape the dilemma and see the game without grief, but I was a positive hero for my commitment and resourcefulness in getting there, AND I didn't make any stupid mistakes like leaving the programme sticking out of my back pocket. I even asked the old man for the West Ham score!

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